Chapter 39: Dariana VS Heather
The morning sun carved golden blades through the crystal spires of Aethelburg, scattering light across the floating bridges and glowing canals in a display that never failed to steal breath from even the most jaded traveler. Briv stood at the railing of their rented room's balcony, watching the city wake beneath him—merchants unfurling awnings, trainers releasing flying-types to circle the towers, the distant hum of the transit system that connected the capital's many tiers.
He'd barely slept.
None of them had, really. Samuel's Hippopotas had hatched just before dawn, the little Ground-type emerging from its shell with a confused grunt and an immediate attempt to bury itself in Samuel's lap. The reggae artist had been overjoyed, tearful, laughing as he cradled the creature against his chest and promised it the world.
And Nicola—Nicola hadn't returned to camp until sunrise.
Briv had noticed her absence around midnight, when he'd woken to relieve himself and found her bedroll empty. He'd almost gone looking for her. Almost. But something had held him back—some instinct that told him she needed space, that she was dealing with something he couldn't help with.
When she'd finally appeared at the edge of camp, the Snover cradled in her arms, her hair tangled and her cheeks flushed, he'd pretended not to notice the smell of sex that clung to her skin.
He was good at pretending.
Now, hours later, they were gathered in the common room of their suite—a sprawling space of white marble and gold trim that Dariana had somehow negotiated down to a price that didn't require selling their souls. Patricia sat cross-legged on a velvet chaise, her Budew dozing in her lap while her Buneary groomed its ears nearby. Nicola stood by the window, her new Snover resting at her feet, and Samuel was sprawled across a pile of cushions with his Hippopotas snoring on his chest.
Briv's own team was scattered around the room—Chimchar perched on the back of a chair, tail-flame flickering lazily; Turtwig pressed against the wall near the door, always the vigilant one; Piplup sitting alone in a corner, watching the others with those sad, careful eyes.
"Alright," Dariana said, emerging from the hallway that led to the private bedrooms, "I've secured us transport to the northern district. The Grand Arena has open challenges this afternoon if anyone's interested in—"
She stopped.
The door to the suite had opened.
Standing in the threshold was a woman Briv had never seen before—tall, with long black hair that fell past her shoulders in a silk curtain, flawless bronze skin, and eyes the color of polished obsidian. She wore a crimson jacket over a black bodysuit, the fabric clinging to curves that seemed designed for sin, and her smile was the kind that promised pleasure and pain in equal measure.
"Heather," Dariana said.
The name landed like a stone in still water.
The woman—Heather—tilted her head, her smile widening. "Dariana Brightone. It's been a while."
"You know her?" Nicola asked, her voice sharp.
Dariana's expression had gone cold, all the warmth draining from her features. "We trained together. Before."
"Before what?"
"Before she tried to steal my Gallade."
The room went very quiet.
Heather stepped inside uninvited, her heels clicking against the marble floor. She moved like a predator—confident, deliberate, every motion calculated to draw the eye. Briv found himself watching her despite himself, caught in the gravity of her presence.
"Steal is such an ugly word," Heather said. "I prefer 'borrowed.' Permanently."
"You tried to hack his Poké Ball."
"And I almost succeeded." Heather's smile didn't waver. "But that's ancient history. I'm here for something else."
"Which is?"
"A battle." Heather stopped in the center of the room, one hand on her hip, her dark eyes sweeping over the assembled group. "Three-on-three. Your best against mine. Right here, right now."
Patricia sat up, her Budew squeaking in protest. "What's the catch?"
"No catch, sweetheart. Just a friendly competition between old acquaintances." Heather's gaze returned to Dariana. "Unless you're afraid."
Dariana's jaw tightened.
"I'm not afraid of you."
"Then prove it."
The silence stretched, taut as a wire. Briv could see the calculation in Dariana's eyes—the weighing of risk against pride, the memory of everything Heather had tried to take from her. He wanted to intervene, to tell Dariana she didn't have to do this, that Heather wasn't worth the trouble.
But he also knew Dariana better than that.
"Fine," Dariana said. "Three-on-three. But we do it outside. I'm not wrecking the suite."
Heather's smile finally reached her eyes. "I knew you'd say yes."
---
The rooftop terrace of the apartment complex was a wide, open space designed for exactly this purpose—a rectangular battle court marked with white lines, surrounded by low walls that offered a panoramic view of the city. The morning sun had risen fully now, burning off the last traces of mist, and the crystal towers of Aethelburg glittered in the distance like a promise.
A small crowd had gathered—other residents, passersby, a few trainers who'd recognized the names involved. Briv stood with Patricia and Samuel at the edge of the court, Nicola beside them with her Snover at her feet.
"She can't do this," Patricia murmured. "Heather's dangerous. Everyone knows her reputation."
"She can handle herself," Briv said.
"I hope you're right."
Dariana and Heather faced each other across the court, ten paces apart. The wind picked up, tugging at their hair, carrying the faint scent of something electric.
"Standard rules," Heather called out. "Three Pokémon each. We switch when one faints. No items in battle. Agreed?"
"Agreed."
Heather's hand went to her belt. "Then let's not waste time."
She threw her first ball.
The Pokémon that emerged was sleek and dark, its black fur gleaming like oil in the sunlight. Yellow rings circled its ears and forehead, and its red eyes burned with an intelligence that was almost unsettling. It landed on the court with a silence that seemed to swallow sound, its tail twitching lazily.
Umbreon.
Dariana's breath caught. She knew that Umbreon—recognized the particular set of its ears, the scar on its left flank. It had been Heather's first Pokémon, gifted to her before they'd even met. She'd trained it into a nightmare.
"Eevee," Dariana said, and her voice was steady.
Her Eevee burst onto the court in a flash of brown fur and cream, its bushy tail wagging despite the gravity of the situation. It looked at Umbreon with curious, unafraid eyes, and Dariana felt a surge of pride.
"Eevee, huh?" Heather laughed. "Bold choice. Let's see how it holds up."
"Begin."
The word came from nowhere—no referee, no official—but both trainers responded instantly.
"Umbreon, Dark Pulse."
"Eevee, Detect."
The wave of dark energy erupted from Umbreon's body, rippling through the air like a physical force. Eevee's eyes glowed for a split second, and then it moved—not dodging, but flowing, weaving through the attack with a grace that seemed almost precognitive.
"Now, Quick Attack."
Eevee shot forward like a bullet, paws barely touching the ground. It slammed into Umbreon's side, sending the dark-type skidding backward—but Umbreon recovered almost immediately, its claws digging into the concrete.
"Mean Look," Heather commanded.
Umbreon's eyes locked onto Eevee, and the little normal-type froze mid-step. The air around it seemed to thicken, to solidify, trapping it in place.
"Now, Toxic."
"Eevee, Bite! Break out!"
Eevee lunged, teeth bared, but Umbreon was faster. A stream of purple liquid shot from its mouth, catching Eevee in the chest. The poison seeped into its fur, its skin, and Eevee whimpered as the toxic substance began working through its system.
"Follow up with Assurance."
Dark energy gathered around Umbreon's paw, and it struck—a brutal, bone-jarring blow that sent Eevee tumbling across the court. The little Pokémon scrambled to its feet, shaking, poison already visible in the way it moved.
"Dariana," Patricia whispered. "Do something."
Dariana's mind raced. She knew this tactic—Heather had used it against her before, back when they trained together. Trap the opponent, poison them, then use Assurance to double the damage. It was cruel, methodical, designed to win through attrition rather than overwhelming force.
But she wasn't the same trainer she'd been back then.
"Eevee," she called. "Use Refresh."
Eevee's body glowed with a soft pink light, and the poison burning through its veins receded. The Mean Look's grip weakened—not broken, but loosened.
"What?" Heather's eyes narrowed.
"Now, Baton Pass."
A flash of light, and Eevee was gone—replaced by a tall, elegant figure that materialized on the court with the silent grace of a ghost.
Gallade.
The psychic-fighting type rose to its full height, its blade-like arms extending, its red eyes fixed on Umbreon with cold, calculating fury. The crowd gasped—someone in the back whistled—and Heather's confident smile finally faltered.
"Baton Pass transfers the effects of Mean Look," Dariana said calmly. "You're not the only one who knows how to set traps."
"Clever," Heather admitted. "But it won't save you. Umbreon, Shadow Ball."
"Gallade, Psycho Cut."
Umbreon gathered shadow energy in its mouth, the ball growing larger and darker by the second. But Gallade was already moving—faster than anything that size had any right to be—its arm blades glowing with psychic power as it closed the distance.
The Shadow Ball fired.
Gallade's Psycho Cut connected.
The two attacks collided in a burst of purple and pink light, the shockwave rippling across the court and forcing the spectators to shield their eyes. When the light faded, Umbreon was lying on its side, yellow rings dimming, and Gallade stood over it like a victorious gladiator.
"Umbreon is unable to battle," someone called out—one of the spectators, acting as an impromptu referee. "Heather, send out your next Pokémon."
Heather's expression had shifted—no longer smug, but focused. Calculating. She recalled Umbreon with a flick of her wrist, whispering something to the ball before tucking it away.
"Not bad," she said. "But let's see how you handle this."
Her second ball opened, and a mass of blue vines materialized on the court. The Tangela was smaller than average, but its tendrils moved with a fluid intelligence that spoke of years of brutal training. Its white eyes fixed on Gallade with an expression that was almost hungry.
"Tangela, Sleep Powder."
"Gallade, Teleport."
The cloud of spores erupted from Tangela's vines, spreading across the court like fog. But Gallade vanished before it could touch him, reappearing behind the grass-type with surgical precision.
"Psycho Cut."
Tangela twisted—faster than it looked—and its vines caught Gallade's blade mere inches from its face. The two Pokémon strained against each other, psychic energy crackling against plant matter, and Dariana felt her breath catch.
"Power Whip," Heather ordered.
Tangela's other vines lashed out, wrapping around Gallade's legs, its arms, its throat. The psychic-fighting type struggled, but the grip was relentless—and then Tangela slammed him into the ground.
The concrete cracked.
"Gallade!"
"Again."
Tangela lifted Gallade and slammed him again. And again. Each impact sent shockwaves through the court, each one drawing a wince from the crowd. Dariana's hands clenched into fists at her sides.
"Gallade, you have to break free!"
Her Pokémon's eyes snapped open—burning with defiance—and Dariana saw the glow of psychic energy building around its blades.
"Psycho Cut. Full power."
The blades extended, glowing so bright they seemed to cut the air itself. Gallade swung—not at Tangela, but at the vines holding him—and the psycho-kinetic energy sliced through them like they were made of paper.
Tangela recoiled, vines retreating, and Gallade landed on his feet in a crouch.
"Now, Close Combat."
Gallade exploded forward, blades shifting to fists, and the impact when it connected sent Tangela flying across the court. The grass-type bounced once, twice, and then slammed into the far wall with a wet, final thud.
It didn't get up.
"Tangela is unable to battle," the impromptu referee said. "Heather, send out your final Pokémon."
Heather's face was unreadable as she recalled Tangela. For a long moment, she simply stood there, her dark eyes fixed on Dariana with an expression that might have been respect.
"Your Gallade is impressive," she said. "But I saved the best for last."
Her final ball opened, and a Pokémon emerged that seemed to float on air—a delicate creature with a blue and white body, red and yellow tassels trailing from its head, and a bell-like appendage on its tail. Chimecho's eyes were closed, but its psychic presence was palpable, a pressure against the mind that made Dariana's temples throb.
"Psychic," Heather commanded.
The attack came without warning—a wave of telekinetic force that slammed into Gallade before he could react. The psychic-fighting type staggered, his defense against special attacks pitifully low, and Dariana knew with sickening certainty that he couldn't take another hit.
"Gallade, return."
She recalled him in a flash of red light, her heart pounding.
"Shellos," she said, "your turn."
The little sea slug materialized on the court with a soft, wet sound. Its antennae swayed gently, its warm eyes taking in the floating Chimecho with calm resilience. It was the least flashy Pokémon she had—the one that had taken the longest to bond with, the one that seemed too gentle for competitive battling.
But it was also the one that never gave up.
"Chimecho, Energy Ball."
"Shellos, Mirror Coat."
The green sphere of grass energy hurtled toward Shellos. But the sea slug's body shimmered with a reflective sheen, and the attack bounced back—amplified, redirected—slamming into Chimecho with twice the force.
The psychic-type reeled, its bell tail ringing in distress.
"Confusion," Heather snapped.
"Shellos, Mud Bomb."
The two attacks crossed in mid-air—a wave of psychic energy meeting a glob of pressurized mud. They annihilated each other in a burst of brown and purple, and Shellos followed up without waiting for orders.
"Water Pulse."
The ring of water shot from Shellos's mouth, catching Chimecho in the chest. The psychic-type spun backward, its tassels tangling, and Heather's expression finally cracked.
"Recover," she snarled.
Chimecho glowed with healing light, its wounds knitting closed, and Dariana felt a spike of frustration. Of course Heather would teach it Recover. Of course she'd make it nearly impossible to wear down.
But Shellos wasn't done.
"Shellos," Dariana said quietly. "Use Yawn."
The sea slug's mouth opened wide, and a pink bubble of psychic energy drifted toward Chimecho. The psychic-type tried to dodge, but the bubble was faster—it popped against its face, and Chimecho's eyes grew heavy.
"No!" Heather shouted. "Chimecho, stay awake! Psychic!"
Chimecho's attack was sluggish, the telekinetic wave barely ruffling Shellos's antennae. The sea slug endured it without flinching, its warm eyes fixed on its opponent with patient determination.
"Now, Amnesia."
Shellos's body glowed with psychic energy, reinforcing its mental defenses.
"Chimecho, Psychic again! Full power!"
Another wave—stronger this time, desperate—but Shellos had already adapted. The attack washed over it like water over stone, and Chimecho's eyes fluttered closed.
It was asleep.
"Heather," Dariana said, "it's over."
"Like hell it is. Chimecho, wake up!"
But the psychic-type didn't respond. It drifted in the air, peaceful and unaware, as Shellos gathered the final attack.
"Mud Bomb."
The glob of earth and water struck Chimecho square in the chest. The psychic-type didn't even have time to cry out before it was falling, hitting the concrete with a soft, final thump.
The court was silent.
"Chimecho is unable to battle," the referee said, his voice awed. "Dariana Brightone wins."
The crowd erupted.
Briv was the first to reach her, his arms wrapping around her in a fierce hug. Patricia and Samuel were right behind him, their voices overlapping in a cacophony of congratulations. Nicola hung back, but her eyes were warm with something that looked like pride.
Across the court, Heather stood alone.
She recalled Chimecho with movements that were almost mechanical, her face a mask of controlled fury. For a moment, Dariana thought she might say something—might offer a concession, a handshake, some acknowledgment of the battle they'd shared.
But Heather simply turned and walked away.
No words. No goodbye. Just the click of her heels on the concrete and the whisper of her crimson jacket disappearing through the rooftop door.
"She's a sore loser," Samuel observed.
"She's always been a sore loser," Dariana said. "That's not new."
But something about the encounter lingered—a cold weight in her chest that she couldn't quite shake. Heather had come here for a reason. She'd known exactly where to find them, exactly when to appear. That kind of accuracy required information, connections, resources.
The Eclipse Squad had connections everywhere.
"Dariana?" Patricia's voice broke through her thoughts. "You okay?"
"I'm fine." She forced a smile. "Let's get out of here. I need to check on Gallade."
But as they walked back toward the suite, Dariana couldn't help glancing over her shoulder—scanning the rooftops, the shadows, the spaces between the crystal towers where darkness pooled.
Somewhere out there, Heather was planning something.
And Dariana had the sinking feeling that this battle had been the least of their problems.